The Norwood Builder
by Pocketbook-Angel
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade are still enjoying the honeymoon phase of their relationship, but investigating the murder of a property developer might drive them apart. A Sherlock/Lestrade rewrite of ACD's "The Norwood Builder", set about three months after "The Empty Hearse".


Sherlock ignored the 1812 Overture as it crashed around the room, snare drums and horns demanding he abandon his comfortable bed and face the grim reality of a day without cases. Yesterday, he'd almost been bored enough to take the case of the Missing Moggie of Maida Vale, but imagining the idiots at Scotland Yard gleefully reading about it on John's blog was enough to keep him from saying yes. He still wasn't used to life without an Enemy. Moriarty had been a particularly good one, and he'd had a vast network of minions who were almost as evil as their master. The new aspirants to Moriarty's Crown of Criminality were a pathetic lot, hardly even qualified to be a sidekick or flunky. Sherlock burrowed into his pillow and let the melodies float by him, muffled by the feathers. He wondered why the truly pleasurable things in life were either unhealthy, like opiates, or rare, like a tricky murder in a locked room.

"If you're going to commit a crime, you should at least try to be clever about it. No one tries any more. Why is that?"

Lestrade, peacefully sleeping through church bells and cannon fire, didn't answer.

"Turn off your alarm, Greg. They always play Vivaldi next and you know how I feel about 'Spring' first thing in the morning. Or ever."

The last time he'd had no cases, Lestrade had felt sorry for him. He'd brought him breakfast in bed and tried kissing him after the tea and toast, grumbling a little when Sherlock sent him off to brush his teeth.

"It's barely eight, and everything is already boring," Sherlock said.

"We could go for a drive." Lestrade's voice was hidden under the blankets and layers of sleep.

The absurdity of this suggestion chased away thoughts of breakfast. "A drive? Why? Are you going to try tricking me into eating food outdoors again?"

"Too cold. I've been thinking, since you've been back, things have been going fairly well..."

Sherlock agreed. He reached over Lestrade to turn off the alarm, then stayed on top of him, enjoying the warmth of his lover's body. He moved down, planning on teasing Lestrade, making him wait for the touches he desired.

Frantic pounding at the door interrupted them. They could hear Mrs Hudson sternly telling the source of the noise to wait quietly, but the distressed noises continued.

"Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes! Are you here? Mr Holmes," an unfamiliar voice shouted. Sherlock's first impulse was to text John and ask him to come over and see if the case was worth the trouble of getting out of bed. But John would be getting ready for work, and he had been very sarcastic the last time Sherlock had asked him to interview clients to find out if they were interesting enough to meet.

Lestrade was sitting up with an interested look on his face, but it was impossible to send out a policeman to meet with a client. He didn't understand the finer points of Sherlock's work: "why don't you fill out a police report" was his answer to everything. The man had some sort of addiction to paperwork. Sherlock picked up his dressing gown and went out to meet his new client, who was alternating between sad cries of "Mr Holmes" and unhappy moans.

The client was about Lestrade's height, with a strongly defined nose and chin that in other circumstances probably gave him an air of confidence. He was tearing at his hair, leaving his light blond hair looking like swirls of meringue. The source of his distress had to be recent because it would be impossible for anyone's follicles to withstand such intensity for very long.

Sherlock took in the laptop bag and the badges: the client was studying marketing at University of Westminster, had opinions about music and reducing fossil fuels, was kind to small dogs. He glanced at the trainers: dirt, grass, fresh blood... "You've discovered a body. Splendid! Tell me everything."

The client moaned unhappily. "How did you know? I'm so unlucky. They say you know everything—you must know I didn't do it!"

"I don't think it's likely, but I've seen murderers more rabbity than you. Who are you and who did you kill? Or not kill, as the case may be."

"I'm Hector McFarlane. The man I definitely did not kill is Jonas Oldacre. I met him for the first time yesterday and today he's dead. He was dead when I got there. I thought I could see something strange through the French windows, it was Mr Oldacre, lying there, dead. I thought he could be sleeping because he was an eccentric man, but-"

"He was dead. You knelt down next to the body, which is why you have a smear of blood on your right knee."

"I do?" Hector rubbed at his knees.

"You may as well leave it—it is evidence, after all," Sherlock said.

"No, how could it... I knelt down next to him to see if he was dead. I thought he could breathe on a mirror, but I didn't have-"

Sherlock interrupted Hector before he could start repeating himself. "Please start from the beginning. Before yesterday, you'd never met the late Oldacre, today, you were creeping in his French windows at 7:30 in the morning." He leaned back in his chair, alert to his client's every unconscious gesture and turn of phrase.

"How did you know about the French windows?"

Sherlock briefly considered letting Hector believe it was thanks to psychic abilities rather than simple observation. "Shoes. They're a diary that never lies."

Hector exhaled nervously and began his story. "Earlier this week, I received an email saying that I had won a scholarship. The amount they said I would receive was so ridiculous, I wouldn't need to work, I could move out of my mother's house in Blackheath, spend more time on my studies. I recognised the name of the benefactor, Jonas Oldacre. According to Wikipedia, he is one of the biggest developers in London and the South West. Was one of the biggest developers. He invited me to his house in Lower Norwood for dinner last night so he could tell me more about the scholarship. His house is really fantastic, the whole Downton Abbey thing, with a butler and maids in uniform. The food was okay, fish, veg, some kind of white-ish soup that didn't taste like anything. Mr Oldacre said he wanted to restore England to its glory days by funding the students who would be England's future."

The faint murmur of Lestrade's voice in the other room disturbed Sherlock. His fears were confirmed when Lestrade appeared at the door to the front room, wearing his cop suit and his cop face.

"Are you Hector McFarlane?" he asked.

Hector trembled at the sound of his name. "Who are you?"

"DCI Lestrade. We'd like you to come to Scotland Yard and help us with our investigation into the death of Jonas Oldacre."

Sherlock quickly stood, blocking his client from Lestrade's sight. "This is unacceptable, Lestrade. You do not have my permission to enter here and arrest my clients"

"There's a warrant out for his arrest," Lestrade said.

Hector shrank into his chair at the word arrest. "It's fine. I'll go."

"Stay. DCI Lestrade can wait outside while you finish your story."

"I want him to hear my story. I didn't do anything. You have to believe me," Hector said, looking anxiously from Sherlock to Lestrade.

"If you don't leave immediately, you will never be welcome here again."

Lestrade settled in Sherlock's chair. "You need to know that anything you do say may be given in evidence. Go on with your story, son."

"Yesterday was the first time I'd ever met Mr Oldacre. I wouldn't have heard of him, except when I was young, the block of flats across from us were covered in signs for Oldacre Property Group. My parents said they'd known him once, said any flats built by him were likely to come crashing down on the owner's heads. Talking to him that night, I couldn't understand why my parents disliked him. His views on the UK – EU relationship were a little backwards, but what can you expect from someone that old."

Sherlock glanced at the Wikipedia article he'd accessed on his phone. "Jonas Oldacre, born 1965, a year older than you, Lestrade. Currently living in Deep Dene House—no one's added the date of death yet."

Hector waited patiently while Sherlock edited Oldacre's page.

"By the time we finished eating, it was after eleven. He said that in the future, I could stay with him, but he wasn't prepared for guests. He called the Anerley Arms, said I could spend the night there and gave me some money to pay for it. He said it was his fault I missed the train, we were drinking port. I'd never had port before, it didn't taste like I thought it would, but it was good." Hector wiped his damp forehead with his sleeve.

"Mr Oldacre needed me to come back early in the morning to Skype with the other members of the scholarship foundation. He gave me a lot of money, but I didn't know that until I got to the hotel. He said if I left through the French windows, I could cut across the open space to the main road and save myself a bit of time. He really did give me a lot of money. I couldn't believe it when I opened the envelope. I called my mother and told her I was the luckiest man on earth." Hector's face crumpled as if he were about to cry.

"This open space next to his house, are there any gates, or is it open to the main road?" Sherlock asked.

"No gates, there's a footpath that leads between the houses on the other side."

"Did you hear that, Lestrade? Anyone could wander past Oldacre's house and see him handing out envelopes full of money. When you discovered the body, you knelt down and what?"

"The housekeeper came in and started screaming. She screamed and screamed. I was the one who called 999. When they came in, she started screaming that I'd killed him. Everything was happening so fast. I couldn't think, so I ran. I didn't stop running until I was on the train."

"So much for security on British Rail," Lestrade said.

Sherlock paced back and forth, stopping at the window to watch the police cars arrive. "One more question, why do you deserve a scholarship?"

"Why..." Hector shook his head.

"Did you apply? What have you done that would make a billionaire hand you money? It's not usual behaviour, he's famous for knocking down blocks of perfectly decent flats and replacing them with so-called luxury apartments, not for any eleemosynary activities."

"I haven't done anything, Mr Holmes." Hector tensed as the door opened and Sally Donovan briskly entered the room.

Donovan was always abrupt, but she usually bothered to knock before entering. The investigation was already going wrong.

"Sir, we need to talk. Outside." She turned to Hector. "There are police all over this street, so don't try anything."

Sherlock lounged against the closed door, listening to Donovan and Lestrade. It wasn't difficult, Lestrade's angry tone carried through the door and across the room. "Disappeared? How the hell does a body disappear?"

"Disappeared," Sherlock said. "And I thought today was going to be boring."

Lestrade opened the door, not at all surprised to see Sherlock on the other side. "Well, any ideas as to where Jonas Oldacre has wandered off to?" he asked.

"I'll know more once I've been to Blackheath."

"You mean to Norwood," Lestrade said.

"Oh, yes, no doubt that is what I must have meant," Sherlock said, smiling slightly.

Lestrade didn't have time to wonder what that enigmatic smile meant. The Norwood police had somehow lost a corpse, which meant it was time to get to work. The surprise he'd planned for Sherlock would have to wait for another day.


End file.
